


Pyromania, Pyrophilia

by Dusty_Forgotten



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Fire play, M/M, Pyromania, Romance, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2015-01-23
Packaged: 2018-03-08 18:57:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3219809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dusty_Forgotten/pseuds/Dusty_Forgotten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Indulging his pyromania at three in the morning was probably a bad idea, especially when it sets off the fire alarm, but it does force the cute neighbour to stand out in the cold in his underwear. Luckily, Crowley has a coat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pyromania, Pyrophilia

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the prompt by Tumblr user iggycat: "Someone needs to write a ‘the fire alarm went off at 3 am and now the cute guy from the flat next door is standing next to me in his underwear’ AU"

This is all turning out to be a bit of a catastrophe.

In hindsight, the whole thing could have waited until morning, but you suppose that’s what makes you a pyromaniac aside from a pyrophiliac. It was just a craving to flick your lighter, a moment of quiet reverence after hours of research and drafting. You never should have become a lawyer.

Ah, but if you hadn’t spent those first few years in criminal defense, you might not know how to pass arson off as an accident, how to explain the ethyl alcohol-soaked paper towels in your trash can as too much hand sanitizer, lit by a not-quite smothered cigarette. That also explains why you still carry a Zippo. The only people who would know you haven’t had a nicotine patch- much less a cigarette- in years are your coworkers. The cops believe you; you’ve nothing to gain from burning your own apartment complex down, since you’d barely break even on the insurance after replacing a closet full of bespoke suits. In whole, it’s only an inconvenience to stand out in the cold surrounded by neighbours a lot more put out being awake at the Demon’s Hour.

One that looks rather used to it is the undergrad a floor above you; he’s dead tired, but there’s a pen stuck behind his ear. The fact he’s shivering in nothing but underpants only adds to the ensemble: “College kid with a paper due?”

He jumps violently enough that it catches the attention of the police officer you’d explained the little cigarette and sanitizer mishap to. He blinks like he’d rather his eyes stay closed. “This is your fault.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re the lawyer in apartment six. You set off the smoke alarm.”

“Guilty as charged. Never empty an ashtray after you’ve just finished a cigarette.”

The blue eyes- and _Mother Mary_ are they blue, even under the streetlamp- look incredulous, as he hugs himself for warmth. “You quit smoking.”

A quick lie comes naturally, “Started again.”

He steps closer, and the boy’s taller than you, which just isn’t fair. “You don’t smell like cigarette smoke. More like a campfire.”

Your smile’s falling, but you force it back in place. “You look cold.”

“I can’t imagine why.” he shoots back. The way his knees are knocking puts him about on height with you. He’s got good legs, from biking to classes.

“Do you want my coat?”

His teeth chatter as he says, “Why would I turn that down?”

You shrug and shuck off your wool coat, handing it to the kid. The sleeves hang loose around his wrists, though the coat itself is a bit short. He narrows his eyes at you. “Who wears a suit at three in the morning?”

You slip your hands in your pockets. “A corporate footpad?” He cocks his head in a sort of confused kitten way. “You may know him as Crowley.” Nothing. “Lives in apartment six?”

“When did you acquire a roommate?”

You grit your teeth, collect yourself, and sigh. “I’ll forgive you because it’s late.”

He doesn’t reply, but his stomach does. Loudly. He seems more offended by the noise than bothered to fix it. “Hungry, are we?”

“I cannot speak for you. My hunger is evident.”

You smile despite yourself. “Let’s go for something to eat. Never know how long we’ll be stuck standing out here.”

He looks back at the side of the building, lit up in red and blue flashes and headlights, and down at his bare feet. “I’m in violation of restaurant policy.”

“We’ll go to Waffle House.”

He’s agreeable to that.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Walking into Waffle House at three-forty in the morning with a college kid nude but for your coat is something you never expected to do sober. You slip into a booth and browse the menu. The tip-starved waitress is there in seconds. “What can I get you to drink?”

“Coffee, decaf.” you respond.

“Tea with cream, please.”

“Right away.”

He bites his lip as he reads, hunched over the menu. When his tongue wipes slowly across his bottom lip, you direct your eyes to the window. It’s only a reflection back to the inside, when it’s this dark out. Your coffee is a welcome distraction.

“Are you ready to order?” she asks, pen in hand.

The undergrad looks at you like he’s too young to die, and you order two eggs up with bacon and toast.

“And for you?”

“Short stack, please.” he decides, still sort of hiding behind the placemat. The breakfast menu is facing you.

“Anything with that?”

“No, thank you.”

“You need protein, I’d bet.” you cut in. He looks like he lives off instant noodles.

He glares at you. “I _need_ to pay rent.”

You lean forward slightly, to spare the waitress what you’re about to say. “If you have your wallet on you, I don’t want to know where you’re keeping it.”

He blinks, shakes his head. “I’ll pay you back.”

“Kitten, I’m the one who nearly burnt the place down. I’ll buy you a decent meal.” He deliberates. “You’re a college kid, can you really afford to turn down free food?”

He turns to the server. “Sausage. And hash browns. Actually, could I change the pancakes to french toast?”

“Sure thing. Is that all?”

“Do you have fruit?”

“Yep.”

“That too.”

“Alright. I’ll have that right up for you.”

“Thank you.”

She walks off, and he cradles his mug in his hands. “Thank you, Mr. Crowley.”

Oh, that’s gross. He’s calling you mister, and your foot’s halfway to his side of the booth. You pull it back like a dog told off, and try to be more obvious. “Just Crowley. I don’t think I caught your name, love?”

“Castiel, pleased to make your acquaintance.”

With a half-lidded smirk, you flirt, “Pleasure’s all mine.”

He sips his tea, and stares. You roll your eyes, and watch the food sizzle. Awkward silence.

“... It wasn’t electrical.”

“Hm?”

Arms crossed on the table, mug in one hand, he says, “It wasn’t electrical, because you would have no reason to lie about that. You’re a lawyer; I would assume you’d sue the landlord.”

He’s right. “So?”

“I see no reason to lie if you had caused some accident, a forgotten stove or candle. I see no accident worth lying to an officer for.”

“Are you suggesting I set off the smoke alarm on purpose?”

“I’m suggesting you lied to the police about what caused the fire.”

“Why would I do that?” You’re smiling. You can’t care to do anything about it.

Castiel shakes his head, and watches the server pick up plates and walk them over. She slides one in front of you, and two in front of Castiel.

“This is the first thing I’ve eaten this week other than ramen and cereal.”

“We’ll have to do this more often.”

He catches your eyes. You raise a brow, and he takes a bite of hashbrown. You eat quietly.

He practically scarfs his food, but he has more to eat, so you’re both finished at about the same time. You pay, and leave. He grits his teeth when his bare feet contact concrete. You walk slow just to spite him. Or, keep him longer. Who’s to say?

You’re in eyeshot of the apartments, police gone, street quiet again, when he halts. “Yes, kitten?”

He takes a hand out of pocket- your coat’s pocket. He’s holding your Zippo.

“I smoke.” you explain quickly. Maybe too quickly.

His eyes bore into you, like blue tacks. “What kind?”

You bought up every pack of Djarum Blacks you could find before kreteks were outlawed in 2009, smoked most of them in the month following because it would be a shame to waste them. They’re circumventing the law by calling them “mini cigars” now, but you haven’t smoked since then. There’s still one pack you kept tucked in the back of your freezer. They’re stale. It fooled the investigators, but the kid seems already set on the suspicion you set it on purpose. You’re not an arsonist; you’re a pyromaniac. There’s a difference. Namely, that destruction of property is usually an accident. Usually.

You adjust your stance, and wet your lip, looking elsewhere. You’re a good liar. You’ve just never enjoyed it. If you’re going to continue outwardly flirting with the boy, you should at least tell him the truth. You keep your eyes on the lighter in his hand. “It wasn’t on purpose.”

His eyes narrow, but he listens.

“This may not be as exciting as you were hoping. I wasn’t burning evidence, or practicing an arson, or what have you. I’m just a hell of a pyromaniac.”

Shivering slightly- maybe from the cold, maybe from anger, he’s too far away to tell- Castiel throws open the lighter (that click will always be the most beautiful sound in the world) and flicks it to life. The flame puts some colour on his pale face. He raises his left hand, brings it around the fire, passing over it, through it, and you want him, you want him, you _want_ him.

With a toss of his wrist, the lighter closes, and he walks toward you. He slips it into your palm.

“What exactly did you set on fire?”

You shrug, and he tucks his hands back into his pockets. You mimic, no matter how much you want to play with the Zippo right now. It’s getting late, and you learned your lesson. “I thought I grabbed the 70% alcohol. It was ninety. Burned too hot, I jumped, knocked the bottle over. Sopped it up with some paper towels, didn’t know the flash caught one of my papers until part of it had burned off, lit up the soaked paper towels in the trash. I got it out before it spread, but it was enough smoke for the alarm.”

He’s crowded a little into your personal space, but you don’t mind, because he’s cute. And warm. “Why did you lie?”

You cock your head. “I give myself minor burns for funsies. It doesn’t improve anyone’s faith I’m not an arsonist.”

He nods. “I understand.” Castiel glances around, and sighs, his breath puffing up in a cloud. “It’s late. I’m tired.”

“I can relate.”

He tilts his head like he’s contemplating the entire linguistic history of the words, and says, “Is that a flirtation?”

You laugh, and huff. There’s a lovely fog between the two of you from exhalation. “Now you catch on.”

He ducks his head, rubs the tops of his ears. “If the offer still stands, I would very much like to take advantage of your charity.”

You smirk. “I’d very much like to be taken advantage of.”

He takes a single stride back. “I need to wake up early in order to complete my essay.”

“You should go to bed.”

He nods deliberately. “Goodnight, Crowley.”

“Night, angel.”

Going by your standard Hollywood definitions, ending the night without at least a peck on the cheek is an utter romantic failure, but you’re old enough to know the difference. It’s not like you’ll never see him again; he lives in the place above yours. Besides, you’ll have to get your coat back at some point.


End file.
